Page 15 of Sombra
Her nose has little, light freckles on it, just a dusting.
A taxi honks at us as we step out in front of it, too absorbed in each other to notice. I shake my fist at the driver, which is difficultwhile still holding her bag, and swear under my breath.
She gives me a broad smile, then starts paying attention to everything but me. I can feel her noticing me, though, through a cushion of charged air between us. Not wanting to stare at her, I stride faster.
The energy between us crackles. She has to feel it, no?
My feet hit the asphalt of the parking lot. We get to mycar, and I set the bags down and help her into my Renault. “I’m sorry, the seatbelt has a trick to it.” I lean over her to fix it, and her sweet breath wafts on my cheek. As I mess with the belt, I inhale her vanilla scent. “Are you ready?”
“I’m very ready for something new.”
I close her door, put her bags in the back, and get in, then turn the key in the ignition and back up. Withmy foot on the gas, I tear out of the parking lot only to be stopped by a truck blocking the way.
“Ay, puta madre,” I swear loudly at the imbecile in front of me. I throw up my hands and step on the brakes, honking the horn with a jaunty honk-honk-honk.
She stiffens in her seat, then juts her head forward, curious. “Puta madre?”
I laugh out loud. The wordmotherfuckercomingout of her mouth doesn’t belong there. Like having Audrey Hepburn swear. She doesn’t say bad words, and somehow I want her to say all of them.
While I’m making her say them as she can’t get enough.
I pause. What on earth has gotten into me? No woman has ever affected me this way.
None. I need to knock it off.
I straighten my features and stop laughing. “Puta madre isataco.” The truck moves and allows me to move ahead. I proceed out of the airport parking lot and get to theautopistaheaded south.
Her eyebrows knit together. “A taco? I don’t understand. You eat it?”
And I bark a laugh again as I realize the miscommunication. Castilian Spanish can be different than that Spanish used in the Americas.
She pokes her tongue against the sideof her cheek, confused, and I immediately regret laughing at her.
Eyes on the road, Tavo.“In Spain, a taco is a bad word. It literally means ‘bad word.’ A profanity. You don’t eat it like in Mexico. I should teach you better Spanish.”
Dammit, I glance at her again. Her grin stretches across her face, and she gives me a conspiratorial eyebrow raise. “I don’t mind if you teach methe bad Spanish, too. I want to learn everything. Everything, Gustavo.”
My heart stutters. Did she say? What does this mean? Am I not understanding her?
Oh, theeverythingI could teach her.
“Tavo,” I correct her.
“Tavo.” On her lips, my name sounds like a Chupa Chups lollipop, rounded and sweet.
“How long have you studied Spanish?” Now that she’s in the passengerseat, I keep gazing at her. It’s difficult to watch the road.
“Tengo cuatro años de clases de español,” she tells me seriously, proud of her four years of Spanish. Her accent, I can’t place, except that it is American.
“Hombre. Es nada. Llevo veinte-dos años de español.” I tell her that I have twenty-two years of Spanish, and she gets my joke with a big smile.
She’s nothinglike her Instagram account. She should have been taking pictures of her face. Of things she really likes. I don’t understand why it’s so boring, since within a minute of meeting her, it’s obvious that she has so much more going on than she shows on her social media.
Although I suppose I don’t use my account for much, either.
“I wish my English were better,” I continue. I’ve had Englishclasses every year since elementary school along with plenty of practice, but it’s still a second language.
“It sounds good to me.”
